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You know those afternoons when your brain just sort of stops cooperating?
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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read All the stories you hear when nothing much happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to Tiny Paws Atlanta.
Their mission is to take in small dogs in need and rehabilitate them and place them into the most suitable and loving environment forever homes.
Learn more about them in our show notes.
For ad-free and bonus episodes, click subscribe in Spotify or Apple, or go to nothingmuchappens.com.
Since every episode is someone's first, I like to say a little about how this works.
Silence at bedtime is a modern phenomenon.
Our ancestors rested in environments where the fire crackled, other members of the group stirred or talked, and the world outside made gentle noises.
In other words, dark nights were accompanied by the sounds of safety, warmth and company, which is why a soft voice and soothing words can lull you to sleep.
The more you listen, the more reliable your ability to fall and return to sleep will become.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to restart the episode.
Our story tonight is called Outside. at night, with my dog.
And it's a story that you might have read if you have my book, but has never appeared on the podcast before.
I picked it to read for you this week in tribute to my own dogs, as we are healing from loss and stories are medicine.
It's a story about waking with a loved one when the moon is high.
It's also about flower bulbs and a heavy quilt, the scent of the night air as winter arrives and the warmth that comes from being there with the ones you love.
It's time.
Get as comfortable as you can.
There is nothing left to do.
You can let go of everything now.
And if letting go feels difficult, why not just let me hold it for right now?
Here, give it to me.
I've got it now.
You just rest.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
One more time, breathe in and let it out.
Good.
Outside at night with my dog.
I heard the soft pad of my dog's paws as he stopped beside the bed.
My ears were programmed to him by now.
I heard when he sighed in the night or turned over in his bed.
And when he got up to stand quietly beside me, I heard that too.
He was an old boy, his muzzle gray. and his gait slow and careful.
Our walks had gotten a bit shorter.
But today he'd seen a squirrel racing along the sidewalk and had suddenly found a bit of young dog energy in his limbs.
He'd pulled me chasing down the path.
Thankfully he hadn't caught it, but he liked the chase barking as the squirrel ran up a tree and teased him chittering away in the language of small animals who know how quick they are, patted his head and told him he'd tried his best.
And shouldn't we be getting on to the park?
I reached out now to rest my hand on him, swung my feet to the floor, sleepy but understanding.
As he had gotten older, he sometimes needed to go out in the middle of the night, and I didn't mind at all.
I wrapped my robe around me, pushed my feet into slippers and we padded down the stairs and out to the backyard.
Most times, I'd just let him out and back in a few minutes later.
But something about the way the air smelled, as I opened the door, pulled me out with him.
It was pitch black, deep night, around 3 a.m.
And we were in those weeks when the weather played back and forth. between autumn and winter.
The cold air opened my eyes and I turned them upward to see a clear sky lit by stars and a moon a little past half-full, waxing gibbous.
I thought my dog had come back to my side.
We both stood very still and just listened.
Summer nights have buzzing bugs, croaking frogs and a sort of sourceless hum that comes from nowhere in particular, but is simply present in the air.
Maybe it is the fecundity of growing surging plants, or just the buzz of liveliness that is left over from a day in the sun.
But it is undoubtedly noisy.
There is a particular sound that can only be heard in the middle of the night.
In the near winter, a shocking quiet.
There were no cars driving past, no animals up and about besides us, and there was only the faintest sound of a very light wind moving through the empty branches high above us.
The land was sleeping.
Her creatures curled in dens, settling in for the new season.
Bulbs were deep under mulch and dirt.
Only dreaming now, bright pinks and purples and yellows they would unfold into in the spring.
We stood a moment more and I let the cold air nip at my fingers and move over the back of my neck, knowing that I'd be back in my warm bed soon.
I took a few very deep breaths and, under the spicy scent of dry leaves, there was something clean and clear in the air.
I thought it might be snow.
These clear skies could be thick with clouds tomorrow.
And if we got up again in the middle of the night, as we probably would, we could be standing under the first falling flakes of the season.
I bent down and planted a slow kiss on the top of my old boy's head.
Then we turned and went back inside.
He stopped for a drink of water.
I had one too.
And then we slowly took the stairs back up to bed.
He turned a few times. and settled onto his big cushion.
I spread his blanket over him and tucked it around his back.
He'd be asleep in seconds.
We could all learn this from dogs.
They go from completely awake to deeply asleep in moments. and reverse it just as easily.
I slipped off my robe and slippers and pulled back the heavy quilt on my bed.
I slid down into the sheets and smoothed the quilt over me.
I felt the chill go out of my body by degrees. until even the tips of my toes were warm again.
I thought of the changing season, of the very quiet wind outside and how grateful I was that my dog had taken me out into it.
This is a gift our friends give us.
They'd take us places we wouldn't go on our own and show us things we'd have otherwise missed.
I took a slow breath, turned onto one side, and tugged the quilt up over my shoulder.
I felt myself drifting toward sleep.
Pull some of today into my dreams as I nodded off.
The squirrel flicking her tail high up in the tree.
The pull on the leash as my dog had suddenly wanted to run.
The waxing moon and the sleeping land.
Possibility of snow.
Yes, I was likely to be awakened again tomorrow night and money nights after that, but I was happy for it.
Outside at night with my dog, I heard the soft pad of my dog's paws as he stopped beside the bed.
My years were programmed to him by now.
I heard when he sighed in the night or turned over in his bed.
And when he got up to stand quietly beside me, I heard that too.
He was an old boy, his muzzle gray and his gait slow and careful.
Our walks had gotten a bit shorter.
But today he'd seen a squirrel racing along the sidewalk and had suddenly found a bit of young dog energy in his limbs.
He'd pulled me, chasing down the path.
Thankfully, he hadn't caught it. but he liked the chase.
Barking as the squirrel ran up a tree and teased him, chittering away in the language of small animals who know how quick they are.
I patted his head and told him He tried his best.
And shouldn't we be getting on to the park?
I reached out now to rest my hand on him and swung my feet to the floor, sleepy but understanding.
As he had gotten older, he sometimes needed to go out in the middle of the night.
I didn't mind at all.
I wrapped my robe around me and pushed my feet into slippers, and we padded down the stairs and out to the backyard.
Most times, I'd just let him out and back in a few minutes later.
But something about the way the air smelled as I opened the door pulled me out with him.
It was pitch black, deep night, around 3 a.m.
And we were in those weeks when the weather played back and forth between autumn and winter.
Cold air opened my eyes and I turned them upward to see a clear sky lit by stars and a moon a little past half full, waxing gibbous.
I thought my dog had come back to my side.
We both stood very still and just listened.
Summer nights have buzzing bugs, croaking frogs and a sort of sourceless hum comes from nowhere in particular, but is simply present in the air.
Maybe it is the fecundity of growing surging plants, or just the buzz of liveliness that is left over from a day in the sun.
But it is undoubtedly noisy.
There is a particular sound that can be heard only in the middle of the night, in the near winter.
A shocking quiet.
No cars driving past, no animals up and about besides us, and there was only the faintest sound of a very light wind moving through the empty branches.
High above was sleeping her creatures curled in dens settling in for the new season.
Bulbs were deep under mulch and dirt, only dreaming now of the bright pinks and purples and yellows they would unfold into in the spring.
We stood a moment more and I let the cold air nip at my fingers and move over the back of my neck, knowing that I'd be back in my warm bed soon.
I took a few very deep breaths and, under the spicy scent of dry leaves, there was something clean and clear in the air.
I thought it might be snow.
These clear skies could be thick with clouds tomorrow.
And if we got up again in the middle of the night, as we probably would, we could be standing under the first falling flakes of the season.
I bent down and planted a slow kiss on the top of my old boy's head.
And we turned and went back inside.
He stopped for a drink of water.
I had one too.
And then we slowly took the stairs. up to bed.
He turned a few times and settled onto his big soft cushion.
I spread his blanket over him and tucked it in around his back.
He'd be asleep in seconds.
We should all learn this from dogs.
They can go from completely awake to deeply asleep in moments and reverse it just as easily.
I slipped off my robe and slippers and pulled back a heavy quilt on my bed.
I slid down into the sheets and smoothed the quilt over me.
I felt the chill go out of my body by degrees until even the tips of my toes were warm again.
I thought of the changing season, of the very quiet wind outside and how grateful I was that my dog had taken me out into it.
This is a gift our friends give us.
They take us places we wouldn't go on our own and show us things we'd have otherwise missed.
I took a slow breath and turned onto one side, tugging the quilt up over my shoulder, myself drifting toward sleep.
I'd pull some of today into my dreams as I nodded off.
The squirrel flicking her tail high in the tree.
The pull on the leash as my dog had suddenly wanted to run.
The waxing moon and the sleeping land.
The possibility of snow.
Yes, I was likely to be awakened again tomorrow night and many nights after that, and I was happy for it.
Sweet dreams.
